—
Though Kenya was vast, there was surprisingly little privacy in our colony. Everyone seemed to know everyone else’s business, particularly when it was personal. I’d always been able to steer clear of all of that, being too young and inexperienced for anyone’s serious notice, but now I’d married a notable landowner and was meant to behave accordingly. And so it was that every few weeks, on a Saturday morning, I went home to Njoro to be a wife.
D taught me to drive and lent me the ramshackle wagon he used to haul cargo back and forth from the toolsheds and dip sheds. I preferred the view from horseback, but I learned to like and even crave the speed of the auto, and how it felt a little dangerous whipping along the narrow dirt road, whanging over deep potholes, my teeth rattling, dust in my hair. There were mud bogs to watch out for, and places where I knew if anything happened to strand me I could be in real trouble, but it was also exhilarating—especially in the first dozen or so miles. The nearer I grew to Njoro, though, the more strongly I felt Jock’s hold on me. I didn’t belong to myself. I hadn’t since I decided to say yes to his proposal, but now the reality of that sank in more deeply and seemed to stretch larger as I struggled with it, like a bog or a patch of quicksand. Njoro had always been my home, the place I loved best. Now the effort it took to spend even a few civil days a month in the same house as Jock, for the benefit of neighbouring farmers and anyone else who might be watching, was ruining it for me.
When I pulled up in D’s wagon, I nearly always got a chaste kiss on the cheek. We’d have a drink on the veranda and discuss what had happened on the farm while I was away, the servants milling around us, always happy to see me home. But as soon as night fell and we were alone, the mood turned chilly fast. Jock never tried to touch me sexually—that had never worked for us anyway, not even in the beginning. But every question he asked about my work at D’s and my plans felt proprietary.
“Is D looking out for you?” he wanted to know. “Making sure you don’t get into trouble?”
“What do you mean?”
“You always had your own rules about things. Like that boy you ran around with when I first met you.”
“Kibii?”
“That’s right.” He tipped his cocktail glass back and pulled the whisky along the rim through his teeth. “You were always a bit of a savage here, weren’t you?”
“I can’t think what you’re implying. And anyway, you seemed to admire my hunting with Kibii when we first met. Now I’m a savage?”
“I’m only saying that what you do reflects on me. The way you were brought up out here, running around with God knows who doing God knows what…and now you’re off at D’s, a woman alone surrounded by men. It smacks of trouble.”
“I’m working, not taking dozens of lovers.”
“I’d hear of it in an instant if you were,” he said flatly. His eyes flicked away and returned. “You’ve already put me in quite a position.”
“I’ve put you in a position? Just give me the damned divorce and let’s have done with it.”
Before he could answer there was a rustling just inside the house, and our houseboy, Barasa, came onto the veranda, ducking his head to show us he’d not meant to disturb us. “Does bwana want the evening meal served here?”
“No, in the house, Barasa. We’ll be in directly.”
When the boy had gone, Jock looked at me pointedly.
“What?” I asked. “The servants won’t tell tales.”
“No,” he said. “Usually not. But they always know the score, don’t they?”
“I don’t care what anyone knows.”
“Maybe not, but you should.”
We ate our meal in strained silence, all of the furniture seeming to lean heavily in from the walls. The servants were very quiet as they came and went, and it was awful to sit there, wanting to scream but saying nothing. Jock was terrified I was going to embarrass him—or embarrass him further. That was all he seemed to think of now as he flexed and cautioned me, running thick strands of wire around the charade of our life together. He’d always been good at fences. I had known that from the beginning, but I hadn’t guessed how desperate I could feel bound up inside one.
When I could finally excuse myself to the small guest bedroom where I was sleeping, I felt chapped and raw and prodded at. I barely slept at all that night, and the next morning, though I generally stayed for lunch, I bolted for the wagon at first light.